A Trial Of Strength
Hard, narrow and straight is the route,
Those who are un-backed fall headlong soon,
The devotees face slippery spot at each step,
And go through a trial of strength.
A thing slight may culminate taking up,
Or throw down into the dark bottom of abyss,
Where from if you are not brittle hearted,
Start climbing afresh, with zeal and zest,
Submitting your wills before the Mighty Consent.
A journey long of the distant land allowed me
To have a pause in front of a mosque,
Very small like a turned half globe,
With a minaret in centre of the top.
Divided was its roundity with raised streaks,
As they do divide the soft crust of a melon,
Some invisible masters had made a show of craft,
The trailing branches of roses were laden
With the flowers ever fresh and leaves ever green.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Heavy Satchel
Often when after the hours of noon,
We were set free from the school,
I came out with no addition in the stuff,
Except scarred, lashed legs and back.
I found my mother awaiting in front,
Seeing my laming gait she examined,
The scars on my back, turning over,
The hind edge of my gray shirt.
She caressed my swollen hands,
I stood silent in front of her,
For she knew amid the high walls,
What had been imparted to me.
Giving me a quarter of loafy-sweet,
Consoled me to forget my pangs,
She never complained to the builders,
Against coercion upon her child.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Labour Night
April passed away with its fragrant airs,
And it was the bright hot day of the month next;
Evening began to befall; the men and women
Halted their vehicles in the commodious lawn,
XLIs, Mercedes and Paradoes dazzled the eyes.
They were producers, manufacturers, and firm-owners
And were heading to the egg-white grand building:
The rain-washed edifice of the five stars hotel,
Green grass had a virgin tread of the gents and ladies.
They all went up the stairs of the first floor,
Entered sluggishly into the gigantic hall
Rounding arms around waists of the rented-whores.
They sat in the chairs placed along the rectangular tables
Laden with the rare roses, sheeted with
The red shining cloth hemmed silky golden.
In the first phase they were offered rare beverages
Warming their bodies, wakening the contents of lust,
They snivelled in intimacy of the hired-beloveds.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Whisper
One rainy morning in the month of August,
To collect the scattered scraps of sustenance,
Went I out as birds leave the nests,
Disperse to find a chance and luck,
Left behind I alright everything,
Nothing ill I smelt at those moments,
And no doubt excessively happy I was,
For the reasons unapparent as sometimes,
Happiness springs up by own accord.
One reaching the destination someone,
Informed me a thing woeful,
“ Your Eden is crushed along with the lives ten”
With no loss of time, I hastened to return,
With flowing tears and suppressing sighs.
Prayed to God” May it be untrue.”
Ah! But bad news seldom turns good.
All the stages in the four decades,
The moments I was lulled asleep,
The soft lap where sustained I was,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Veteran Of The World War II
In my early days of childhood, I beheld a man,
He was in eighties with thin wobbly, shaky legs,
Slits slots were on his heels, broken were his boots.
Though they were dingy soiled yet he wore
A ragged shirt and old brown pants of army,
And he too wore one glassed frame of glasses.
He spoke to the street-kids with kind words,
But with quaking, quivering voice.
He always carried upon the bent structure of body,
A big bag hung on his shoulders behind,
Containing contents of the dotage.
He was expelled out from the house of his own,
By his sons, daughters and daughters-in-law,
And he roved, moved but not afar from the village.
When his belly beleaguered, harassed him,
He knocked at any door in front, in the street,
And fed it with the home-backed bread of charity
Soaking in water or pasting with the paste of chilies,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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December When You Turn Again
O! December,
When you turn again this year,
You bring along
The news of the city which I long for.
The city
Where galaxies glimmer of glowworms,
Where the spheres beam
With the colours of butterflies,
Where all-around is the aroma
Of faithfulness.
That one who touches it,
Either with glance, or with fingertips,
Became perfumed for a while.
O! December,
When you turn again this year,
You bring along
The news of the city which I long for,
The city where grains of sand are stars,
The rose and the nightingale,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Cold Stars
It is sweet madness, insanity,
Or something else?
If anyone knows,
He should teach me the malady.
Now hearken me,
And my awakening dream.
My body ethereal and unseen,
Shot up, leaving behind,
The sloughed mortal frame.
As the fiery-weapon, propels up,
From the catapult or launching pad.
Much swifter than the shooting star,
Passing through the darkest zones,
Instantly covering distances,
Huge and immense,
Entered into the world of light,
Clear, cold and serene.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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O! December
O! December,
When you come this turn again,
Bring along,
Reports of the city,
The city that dwells in my heart.
Where glimmer galaxies
Of glow-worms,
Where spheres smile,
With the colours of butterflies,
Where all around lingers
Fragrance of faithfulness,
And that who feels it
With the finger-tips,
Or gets its glance
Becomes fragrance incarnated.
O! December,
When you come this turn again,
Bring along
Reports of the city,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Petty Pebble
(Written on the sad demise of Haji Khalil my friend)
He was my friend,
Who ever defended my cause,
Spoke he in my favour
With the words of flavor,
He was bold and ever told
The truth in the face,
Resolved he worries of others,
Regarded friends his brothers.
He partook in the drama of life
By moving around the town,
By sharing woes and worries,
Of the troubled beings;
He was humble, and had a heart
Pity packed, mind charged with faith.
He was yet unknown
To the plagues of jealousy and pride:
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Monologue On the Grave
“You passed away and I am left behind,
With your kids: two daughters and a son.
Two years have passed since you have departed,
And for me these proved the centuries.
You are buried deep beneath tons of earth,
And live there in the unexplored world,
I lived not a single moment without recalling you,
But you have stopped your sojourn into my dreams.”
“I have lost my esteem and where ever I move,
Scandalous eyes stare with slanderous looks.
I remember, on your sad demise there came
Some uniformed men, all neat and clean,
And handed over you to the mother earth,
With strange tricks and so-called obsequies.
They played, peeled forth some notes of dirge,
Saluting you by thumping, thrashing the ground
Around your grave trod the tufts of fragrant grass.
Then placed they braided tassels of wild bushes,
They gave me your cap, belt and blood-stained boots,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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